Posted: Mon Jan 23, 2006 9:35 am
Wilderness, 1/8th Mile: 1/27/2006
A wise mountain guru once told me over a dancing campfire that in Yosemite National Park, 98% of all the park visitors either remain in the Valley - always, and they never get more than 1/8 mile away from any of the many roads that traverse throughout the magnificent park. Out of that adventurous remaining 2%, less than 1% of these souls ever dare to get more than 1/8 mile away from any of YNP’s 500+ miles of well-established trails. This story, (and this entire treatise in fact) is dedicated to that 1/50 of 1%, maybe 1000 individuals a year – probably less, backpackers all… us.
A past discussion here talked of wilderness, the wilderness that lives that one-step beyond how far a backpacker can hike in a day toting a full backpack. Past that arbitrary line, etched not only by distance, but also by altitude and terrain, one does not worry about thievery; everyone values their own gear, has their own bag to haul, and their own personal agenda to keep. Wilderness calls for necessary self-sufficiency, a powerful overall attitude, anybody requiring aid or assistance, the person just venturing out to help, most assuredly, also enduring a major ordeal just getting there.
In the true wilderness state, there are recognizable absences. No artsy-crafty designer toilets are necessary to handle the human accrual, quotas are not so rigidly enforced; if you happen to stay over one day extra, nobody fines you for merely enjoying yourself, (or for just forgetting what day it is), schedules do not matter, time is relative, and pace individualistic. Wilderness is a place where rangers are interruptions; they are the exception, the uninvited, and not necessarily the rule. Wilderness is majestic, wild, open, and untamed; it is unsullied and unspoiled by mortals. Common sense dictates behavior, pride actually matters, and personal ethics count more than some capricious set of laws dictated by unseen bureaucrats - never actually being present. It is a place of freedom, a state of mind inviting serendipity, whimsy, and occasionally, even profound thought. Wilderness is unblemished land, pristine waters, and multitudes of countless stars, a synchronization of lights, and a midnight symphony drowned out by a nocturnal silent cacophony. It is a hard place to define, difficult to put one's finger on, but I know it when I see it.
In Yosemite, one such arbitrary wilderness boundary begins just past Little Yosemite Valley (LYV), approximately 2 miles above Nevada Falls. LYV, just the thought of it, a crossroads situated along the Merced - a few miles above a substantial wood-beamed bridge, just those initials are enough to bring back a flood of memories amassed by countless visits. Back when I first made that first trip, in the late 60’s, (yes, there were still dinosaurs alive), it was legal then to camp overnight at the rock slabs just above Nevada falls. Fortunately, someone was thinking; managing the area around Nevada Falls has undergone repeated evolutions in response to the growing number of users to the high country. Sometime, not long after that first visit, somebody became enlightened, bureaucratically designating a specific area a bit farther upriver for the future camping needs. The same master plan (They were smarter back ten) called for setting up a ranger complex in the same vicinity, and providing future “guests” those blue “porta-sans” – those three blue outhouses we all so fondly remember. Yes, for about 25 years or so, the old campground at LYV was more than a wilderness boundary; it was an event, a greenhorn extravaganza, a Boy Scout Jamboree, a Grateful Dead Concert, a safe haven of insanity and anarchy, all located alongside a lazy stretch of the Merced River. See:
http://www.topozone.com/map.asp?z=11&n= ... ayer=DRG25
Of course, there were some rules, the rangers in their little enclosed little compound with their flagpole and bulletin board mentality, well meaning and driven, they came out regularly, early evening, checking wilderness permits, kicking asses and taking names. Those with good attitude but without wilderness permits, busted – a slap on the wrist - immediately relegated to some menial janitorial chore. The rangers saved up apropos assignments, like cleaning campfire circles, empting bear boxes, or picking up two bags of trash/each; these became the payment for not having the required legal authorization to stay overnight. Others, those with a different, more serious attitude, those ornery individuals who just always seem to piss everyone off naturally (We all know who they are.) zealous rangers escorted some entirely off the mountain – in handcuffs. The bears, the bears knew this campsite better than anyone did, making regular nightly visits, some even coming at scheduled times. I could relate many stories about bears and this famous campsite; far too many of my adventures required passing through here. After a while, it got so crazy there that on outgoing trips, I prefer to camp instead at another site, an extra mile upriver – the one at the Moraine Water Slide, but that is for another time.
One memorable night during a typical warm August, a group of Boy Scouts came through, up for the weekend via the longer Muir trail – I suppose they were saving the Mist for the way down. There were perhaps 15 of them, uniform shirts, badges up the kazoo, yellow bandanas, and backpacks with frames: young, spunky, kids – maybe 13-years-old – who can really tell at that age. Unfortunately, there was accompanying them someone who I only can describe as a complete *******; he led this troop of kids; I do not know how he became a leader, maybe by default, but this individual had a serious attitude, complaining about anything and everything the kids tried to do while backpacking. Have you ever known someone who had a voice that just hearing the sound, it made you cringe, and worse yet, that person would never shut up? Add to that a generally negative attitude and the fact that he was a short fat person – possessing some sort of Napoleon complex, and you have an accurate picture of the scout’s designated leader.
In LYV, there were perhaps fifty camping sites available, more or less, the leader carefully selected his pick for his minions - just across a small grove of trees; I could hear every frigging word - others could too. The camp at LYV had its own defined and unique ethic; it self- governed. After listening to the leader harangue yet another kid… someone else equally offended… from across the way they started making catcalls…”Leave the kids alone”…that sort of thing; we all felt sorry for the kids.
The night progressed and campfires died out. A small group of us, a campfire nearby, passed the evening drinking single malt - Oban, listening to everything, eventually deciding we should do something – take advantage of this unique opportunity. We created a bear magnet. Starting out with an old sock, we took general donations: sweets, melted marshmallow, chocolate, candy, freeze dried fruit, honey, kool-aid, anything sticky, sweet, and aromatic went into that sock. A knot at the end, some holes in the sock for strategic leakage, a few yards of fifty-pound monofilament, the moon disappearing behind the ridge…we were ready. Creeping silently over to the leader’s tent, a few quick knots around a tent pole, pull a few stakes… all we had to do now was sit back and wait. Right on time, 2 AM, the feisty cinnamon cub – the one with the green 6 stapled to his left ear - started his regular disruptive rounds; the ranger previously warned us during her evening six o’clock permit check, just before the scouts arrived. The pompous scout leader, always in charge and hearing outside commotion, came roaring out of his sleeping bag, waving his arms, jumping, ostentatiously ready to yell at someone, anyone - again, only to turn around to discover his tent leaving without him, moving upstream, following the cub. I can still hear the laughter of fifteen scouts as their leader, barefoot and thermals, swore a blue streak, his language not found in my Eagle Scout manual.
Then, about 10 years ago or more, someone in Yosemite’s new front office, someone powerful, declared this specific campsite and its unique ecosystem untenable, moving the entire complex 1/8th mile north, up and off the river to today’s location, engineering the famous two-story crapper in the process, and signaling an end to another famous chapter in Yosemite’s backcountry lore. That old campsite remains as a pleasant memory for many of us today; we happily and proudly chronicle its past glory in stories such as this.
LYV, for some, this very site itself often initiating backpacking’s version of a baptism – Yosemite - just far enough out, logical, a place to try out a new dream – new gear, then afterwards, over a Curry pizza below, realization. Many, dividing the arduous 11-mile march up to Half Dome, plan an overnight hiatus here, temporarily abandoning expensive gear, glad only to pick it all up again after experiencing the thrill of cables and poles. Then there are the hikers that come down from Glacier Point, designating the bridge at Nevada Falls a natural and logical waypoint, a scheduled pause in a multi-day family adventure. Finally, there are the few others like me who used this camp as a buffer zone, the relatively large camp population here acting as a much-needed re-initiation back into the bustles and insanities of civilization – tomorrow, four miles distant. These are the kinds of users who spent days and miles hiking far and above, hiking the trails leading to who-knows-where, one famous corridor coming from Mt. Whitney itself, 211 miles distant. All trails seem to pass through Little Yosemite Valley.
After a few months, no make that after quite a few years, of Yosemite’s influence, one develops an air, a Sierra attitude, maybe it is more like a swagger – movements elongated and defined, akin to the way a giant cat glides along, moving slow and easy, minimum effort, maximum efficiency. That morning I had just come down the Merced, starting that morning 15 miles upriver - solo, now finished for the day, dropping my pack next to a bear box, a site located near the river’s edge in the peripherals of the campground at LYV. Leaning back against a fallen tree and half-way studying the camp’s demographics, John emerged from the far side somewhere, he had that recognized swagger too, well-worn Marmot windbreaker, Vasque boots, Chicago Cubs baseball cap, beard and long black hair; he carried a faded Gregory Denali. Even though we had never met, there is something rather accepted - an unspoken recognition that draws similar species together – it happens all too often to deny – he crossed the flats, long shadows swaying underneath tall pines, and threw down his pack over next to mine.
For the first fifteen moments, there was not a single word spoken – packs opened - small stuff sacks found, rolling papers – the sharing of a typical Sierra repast, - respect - the “old-school” greeting. Finally, conversation – starting out new as fast friends –seemingly continuing a conversation started years ago, not missing a beat, birds of a feather again reunited. It turns out that John worked for some government agency, forestry, or maybe it was transportation, (Who really cares – He told me but I cannot now recall exactly.); he was just finishing his weekend, a big party down below and was only a bit late getting back to his job. John’s summer work was temporary. It consisted of re-drilling the holes going up that cable-spanned granite monolith known as Half Dome. More specifically, John’s job was the operation of an ancient pneumatic drill, the chattering incessant… the noise, the widening and deepening of the old holes – newly drilled holes securing the new steel poles, the new poles on which anchored the wood beams, from which hung the cables, the famous cables of Half Dome.
My intentions for the next day had originally centered on fresh fruit, cold beer, and a hot pastrami sandwich from Degnon’s Deli, but faced with this rare opportunity, I turned upwards instead, pointing my boots towards Half Dome. Rising early, I accompanied my friend up the switchbacks, then across the ridge, finding his billet, the trail crew’s weekday campsite high above – just a bit below Quarter Dome. Hearing animosity, I left John behind to explain to his irate boss why he was only a few hours (a day) late, I passed the time by once again doing the cables, again, (as long as I was there, I might as well).
From the top, you could hear his drill start, roaring to life, a rude metal sound announcing its attack on the orange-brown, sparkly, mica-incrusted, granite surface. About 3/4s of the way down I again found John; he was, roped in, hanging on to this dang infernal machine for dear life. He drove an archaic drill… top roped above him, his main objective: just holding on while the rotating chisel did all the real hard work. Watching for a few moments, I could not let this prospect in front of me pass, and I admit it, (freely here too), that I heavily bribed John, begging him to let me have a chance. I remember he adamantly declined at first, but all I know is that right now, on the left hand side, looking up, about the twenty-third hole, that one there belongs to me.
You might think that would be the end of this tale; you must agree that it is impressive that I was able to put a legal permanent mark on one of the world’s most recognized landmarks, and even better, find a way to tell you too – (my effort is still recognizable many years later too – I still check). For some, that would be more than enough to end this rambling tale, but I ascribe to a higher calling, I still have to tie this whole saga together, so let us continue... It just so turns out that, while I was taking my turn with that drill contraption, I had previously taken off my daypack and looped it (I thought securely) over one of the lower poles. I soon discovered that nothing falling off the cables, (at least from the vicinity of the 21st pole), makes its way down to the trail directly below. At the base of the cables lives a pile of worn gloves, I can also tell you that just a little further south, it drops off quickly another thousand feet down.
See: http://www.topozone.com/map.asp?z=11&n= ... ayer=DRG25
Watching my pack, sunglasses, and water system slide down, then disappear over the ledge below, this produced howls of laughter from the masses (Well, at least from John and this other damn fool). Flummoxed, I immediately pondered if there was any way to retrieve my lost belongings. Riled still, looking at my Topo, I figured that if they landed somewhere around the red dot, they might be recoverable…maybe. To make a long story short, I never did recover my daypack. To anybody out there, the pack, a gunmetal blue North Face, the water system, an old Platypus, and the sunglasses were Porsche (I do miss those glasses.). I did find, (always within 1/8th mile of the trail too), many scraps of cloth that could have come from windbreakers, colored shapes that once might have been hats, frames from glasses, trail trash, paper, plastic, water bottles, cigarette wrappers, and a whole junk yard of wind-blown crap. I also discovered there is a Lost Lake that empties between Mount Broderick and Liberty cap, giving a unique perspective on the well-traveled main trail below.
By leaving the main trail somewhere, south, (just back from that flat open section overlooking Tenaya canyon – near that one big tree) I discovered the following sordid facts. It is almost possible to avoid a majority of the talus, some of the Manzanita, most of the bushes, and maintain the same altitude – no, I lied. The object soon became not to find my lost belongings, but just to find a different way, a safe way down from the Dome – it is a big rock. Within 1/8 mile, all traces of the trail above completely disappear – you cannot retrace steps - it becomes steep, fallen trees and thick shrubs impair the route, then, after experiencing the fun of a giant boulder field, after breaking a trekking pole and tearing up an ankle… finally open granite. There – above a boggy shallow lake covered with yellow pollen, Lost Lake – pristine, wilderness again.
What I remember most, heading southeast away from that high hidden marsh, was the amount of available firewood lying about. Having come through LYV over 50 times over the years, never has it been easy to find decent firewood there, at least within its 1/8th mile radius. I always thought that it was just due to the lack of trees. Here though, not that high above, and certainly not that far away, was ample easy campfire pickings. Then, as expected, the closer you got to LYV, the available wood stores ceased, and the trash increased.
Maybe there is a simpler definition of wilderness after all. Wilderness, at least in Yosemite right next to one of its most-used trails, seems to start 1/8 mile off trail any direction, and coincidently, that is where the firewood starts… and the trash stops. People complain that Yosemite is too crowded. To them I say, “Wilderness, I’ve been there. It’s that way, 1/8th mile.” What could be easier?
Another solo backpacking adventure… by markskor
A wise mountain guru once told me over a dancing campfire that in Yosemite National Park, 98% of all the park visitors either remain in the Valley - always, and they never get more than 1/8 mile away from any of the many roads that traverse throughout the magnificent park. Out of that adventurous remaining 2%, less than 1% of these souls ever dare to get more than 1/8 mile away from any of YNP’s 500+ miles of well-established trails. This story, (and this entire treatise in fact) is dedicated to that 1/50 of 1%, maybe 1000 individuals a year – probably less, backpackers all… us.
A past discussion here talked of wilderness, the wilderness that lives that one-step beyond how far a backpacker can hike in a day toting a full backpack. Past that arbitrary line, etched not only by distance, but also by altitude and terrain, one does not worry about thievery; everyone values their own gear, has their own bag to haul, and their own personal agenda to keep. Wilderness calls for necessary self-sufficiency, a powerful overall attitude, anybody requiring aid or assistance, the person just venturing out to help, most assuredly, also enduring a major ordeal just getting there.
In the true wilderness state, there are recognizable absences. No artsy-crafty designer toilets are necessary to handle the human accrual, quotas are not so rigidly enforced; if you happen to stay over one day extra, nobody fines you for merely enjoying yourself, (or for just forgetting what day it is), schedules do not matter, time is relative, and pace individualistic. Wilderness is a place where rangers are interruptions; they are the exception, the uninvited, and not necessarily the rule. Wilderness is majestic, wild, open, and untamed; it is unsullied and unspoiled by mortals. Common sense dictates behavior, pride actually matters, and personal ethics count more than some capricious set of laws dictated by unseen bureaucrats - never actually being present. It is a place of freedom, a state of mind inviting serendipity, whimsy, and occasionally, even profound thought. Wilderness is unblemished land, pristine waters, and multitudes of countless stars, a synchronization of lights, and a midnight symphony drowned out by a nocturnal silent cacophony. It is a hard place to define, difficult to put one's finger on, but I know it when I see it.
In Yosemite, one such arbitrary wilderness boundary begins just past Little Yosemite Valley (LYV), approximately 2 miles above Nevada Falls. LYV, just the thought of it, a crossroads situated along the Merced - a few miles above a substantial wood-beamed bridge, just those initials are enough to bring back a flood of memories amassed by countless visits. Back when I first made that first trip, in the late 60’s, (yes, there were still dinosaurs alive), it was legal then to camp overnight at the rock slabs just above Nevada falls. Fortunately, someone was thinking; managing the area around Nevada Falls has undergone repeated evolutions in response to the growing number of users to the high country. Sometime, not long after that first visit, somebody became enlightened, bureaucratically designating a specific area a bit farther upriver for the future camping needs. The same master plan (They were smarter back ten) called for setting up a ranger complex in the same vicinity, and providing future “guests” those blue “porta-sans” – those three blue outhouses we all so fondly remember. Yes, for about 25 years or so, the old campground at LYV was more than a wilderness boundary; it was an event, a greenhorn extravaganza, a Boy Scout Jamboree, a Grateful Dead Concert, a safe haven of insanity and anarchy, all located alongside a lazy stretch of the Merced River. See:
http://www.topozone.com/map.asp?z=11&n= ... ayer=DRG25
Of course, there were some rules, the rangers in their little enclosed little compound with their flagpole and bulletin board mentality, well meaning and driven, they came out regularly, early evening, checking wilderness permits, kicking asses and taking names. Those with good attitude but without wilderness permits, busted – a slap on the wrist - immediately relegated to some menial janitorial chore. The rangers saved up apropos assignments, like cleaning campfire circles, empting bear boxes, or picking up two bags of trash/each; these became the payment for not having the required legal authorization to stay overnight. Others, those with a different, more serious attitude, those ornery individuals who just always seem to piss everyone off naturally (We all know who they are.) zealous rangers escorted some entirely off the mountain – in handcuffs. The bears, the bears knew this campsite better than anyone did, making regular nightly visits, some even coming at scheduled times. I could relate many stories about bears and this famous campsite; far too many of my adventures required passing through here. After a while, it got so crazy there that on outgoing trips, I prefer to camp instead at another site, an extra mile upriver – the one at the Moraine Water Slide, but that is for another time.
One memorable night during a typical warm August, a group of Boy Scouts came through, up for the weekend via the longer Muir trail – I suppose they were saving the Mist for the way down. There were perhaps 15 of them, uniform shirts, badges up the kazoo, yellow bandanas, and backpacks with frames: young, spunky, kids – maybe 13-years-old – who can really tell at that age. Unfortunately, there was accompanying them someone who I only can describe as a complete *******; he led this troop of kids; I do not know how he became a leader, maybe by default, but this individual had a serious attitude, complaining about anything and everything the kids tried to do while backpacking. Have you ever known someone who had a voice that just hearing the sound, it made you cringe, and worse yet, that person would never shut up? Add to that a generally negative attitude and the fact that he was a short fat person – possessing some sort of Napoleon complex, and you have an accurate picture of the scout’s designated leader.
In LYV, there were perhaps fifty camping sites available, more or less, the leader carefully selected his pick for his minions - just across a small grove of trees; I could hear every frigging word - others could too. The camp at LYV had its own defined and unique ethic; it self- governed. After listening to the leader harangue yet another kid… someone else equally offended… from across the way they started making catcalls…”Leave the kids alone”…that sort of thing; we all felt sorry for the kids.
The night progressed and campfires died out. A small group of us, a campfire nearby, passed the evening drinking single malt - Oban, listening to everything, eventually deciding we should do something – take advantage of this unique opportunity. We created a bear magnet. Starting out with an old sock, we took general donations: sweets, melted marshmallow, chocolate, candy, freeze dried fruit, honey, kool-aid, anything sticky, sweet, and aromatic went into that sock. A knot at the end, some holes in the sock for strategic leakage, a few yards of fifty-pound monofilament, the moon disappearing behind the ridge…we were ready. Creeping silently over to the leader’s tent, a few quick knots around a tent pole, pull a few stakes… all we had to do now was sit back and wait. Right on time, 2 AM, the feisty cinnamon cub – the one with the green 6 stapled to his left ear - started his regular disruptive rounds; the ranger previously warned us during her evening six o’clock permit check, just before the scouts arrived. The pompous scout leader, always in charge and hearing outside commotion, came roaring out of his sleeping bag, waving his arms, jumping, ostentatiously ready to yell at someone, anyone - again, only to turn around to discover his tent leaving without him, moving upstream, following the cub. I can still hear the laughter of fifteen scouts as their leader, barefoot and thermals, swore a blue streak, his language not found in my Eagle Scout manual.
Then, about 10 years ago or more, someone in Yosemite’s new front office, someone powerful, declared this specific campsite and its unique ecosystem untenable, moving the entire complex 1/8th mile north, up and off the river to today’s location, engineering the famous two-story crapper in the process, and signaling an end to another famous chapter in Yosemite’s backcountry lore. That old campsite remains as a pleasant memory for many of us today; we happily and proudly chronicle its past glory in stories such as this.
LYV, for some, this very site itself often initiating backpacking’s version of a baptism – Yosemite - just far enough out, logical, a place to try out a new dream – new gear, then afterwards, over a Curry pizza below, realization. Many, dividing the arduous 11-mile march up to Half Dome, plan an overnight hiatus here, temporarily abandoning expensive gear, glad only to pick it all up again after experiencing the thrill of cables and poles. Then there are the hikers that come down from Glacier Point, designating the bridge at Nevada Falls a natural and logical waypoint, a scheduled pause in a multi-day family adventure. Finally, there are the few others like me who used this camp as a buffer zone, the relatively large camp population here acting as a much-needed re-initiation back into the bustles and insanities of civilization – tomorrow, four miles distant. These are the kinds of users who spent days and miles hiking far and above, hiking the trails leading to who-knows-where, one famous corridor coming from Mt. Whitney itself, 211 miles distant. All trails seem to pass through Little Yosemite Valley.
After a few months, no make that after quite a few years, of Yosemite’s influence, one develops an air, a Sierra attitude, maybe it is more like a swagger – movements elongated and defined, akin to the way a giant cat glides along, moving slow and easy, minimum effort, maximum efficiency. That morning I had just come down the Merced, starting that morning 15 miles upriver - solo, now finished for the day, dropping my pack next to a bear box, a site located near the river’s edge in the peripherals of the campground at LYV. Leaning back against a fallen tree and half-way studying the camp’s demographics, John emerged from the far side somewhere, he had that recognized swagger too, well-worn Marmot windbreaker, Vasque boots, Chicago Cubs baseball cap, beard and long black hair; he carried a faded Gregory Denali. Even though we had never met, there is something rather accepted - an unspoken recognition that draws similar species together – it happens all too often to deny – he crossed the flats, long shadows swaying underneath tall pines, and threw down his pack over next to mine.
For the first fifteen moments, there was not a single word spoken – packs opened - small stuff sacks found, rolling papers – the sharing of a typical Sierra repast, - respect - the “old-school” greeting. Finally, conversation – starting out new as fast friends –seemingly continuing a conversation started years ago, not missing a beat, birds of a feather again reunited. It turns out that John worked for some government agency, forestry, or maybe it was transportation, (Who really cares – He told me but I cannot now recall exactly.); he was just finishing his weekend, a big party down below and was only a bit late getting back to his job. John’s summer work was temporary. It consisted of re-drilling the holes going up that cable-spanned granite monolith known as Half Dome. More specifically, John’s job was the operation of an ancient pneumatic drill, the chattering incessant… the noise, the widening and deepening of the old holes – newly drilled holes securing the new steel poles, the new poles on which anchored the wood beams, from which hung the cables, the famous cables of Half Dome.
My intentions for the next day had originally centered on fresh fruit, cold beer, and a hot pastrami sandwich from Degnon’s Deli, but faced with this rare opportunity, I turned upwards instead, pointing my boots towards Half Dome. Rising early, I accompanied my friend up the switchbacks, then across the ridge, finding his billet, the trail crew’s weekday campsite high above – just a bit below Quarter Dome. Hearing animosity, I left John behind to explain to his irate boss why he was only a few hours (a day) late, I passed the time by once again doing the cables, again, (as long as I was there, I might as well).
From the top, you could hear his drill start, roaring to life, a rude metal sound announcing its attack on the orange-brown, sparkly, mica-incrusted, granite surface. About 3/4s of the way down I again found John; he was, roped in, hanging on to this dang infernal machine for dear life. He drove an archaic drill… top roped above him, his main objective: just holding on while the rotating chisel did all the real hard work. Watching for a few moments, I could not let this prospect in front of me pass, and I admit it, (freely here too), that I heavily bribed John, begging him to let me have a chance. I remember he adamantly declined at first, but all I know is that right now, on the left hand side, looking up, about the twenty-third hole, that one there belongs to me.
You might think that would be the end of this tale; you must agree that it is impressive that I was able to put a legal permanent mark on one of the world’s most recognized landmarks, and even better, find a way to tell you too – (my effort is still recognizable many years later too – I still check). For some, that would be more than enough to end this rambling tale, but I ascribe to a higher calling, I still have to tie this whole saga together, so let us continue... It just so turns out that, while I was taking my turn with that drill contraption, I had previously taken off my daypack and looped it (I thought securely) over one of the lower poles. I soon discovered that nothing falling off the cables, (at least from the vicinity of the 21st pole), makes its way down to the trail directly below. At the base of the cables lives a pile of worn gloves, I can also tell you that just a little further south, it drops off quickly another thousand feet down.
See: http://www.topozone.com/map.asp?z=11&n= ... ayer=DRG25
Watching my pack, sunglasses, and water system slide down, then disappear over the ledge below, this produced howls of laughter from the masses (Well, at least from John and this other damn fool). Flummoxed, I immediately pondered if there was any way to retrieve my lost belongings. Riled still, looking at my Topo, I figured that if they landed somewhere around the red dot, they might be recoverable…maybe. To make a long story short, I never did recover my daypack. To anybody out there, the pack, a gunmetal blue North Face, the water system, an old Platypus, and the sunglasses were Porsche (I do miss those glasses.). I did find, (always within 1/8th mile of the trail too), many scraps of cloth that could have come from windbreakers, colored shapes that once might have been hats, frames from glasses, trail trash, paper, plastic, water bottles, cigarette wrappers, and a whole junk yard of wind-blown crap. I also discovered there is a Lost Lake that empties between Mount Broderick and Liberty cap, giving a unique perspective on the well-traveled main trail below.
By leaving the main trail somewhere, south, (just back from that flat open section overlooking Tenaya canyon – near that one big tree) I discovered the following sordid facts. It is almost possible to avoid a majority of the talus, some of the Manzanita, most of the bushes, and maintain the same altitude – no, I lied. The object soon became not to find my lost belongings, but just to find a different way, a safe way down from the Dome – it is a big rock. Within 1/8 mile, all traces of the trail above completely disappear – you cannot retrace steps - it becomes steep, fallen trees and thick shrubs impair the route, then, after experiencing the fun of a giant boulder field, after breaking a trekking pole and tearing up an ankle… finally open granite. There – above a boggy shallow lake covered with yellow pollen, Lost Lake – pristine, wilderness again.
What I remember most, heading southeast away from that high hidden marsh, was the amount of available firewood lying about. Having come through LYV over 50 times over the years, never has it been easy to find decent firewood there, at least within its 1/8th mile radius. I always thought that it was just due to the lack of trees. Here though, not that high above, and certainly not that far away, was ample easy campfire pickings. Then, as expected, the closer you got to LYV, the available wood stores ceased, and the trash increased.
Maybe there is a simpler definition of wilderness after all. Wilderness, at least in Yosemite right next to one of its most-used trails, seems to start 1/8 mile off trail any direction, and coincidently, that is where the firewood starts… and the trash stops. People complain that Yosemite is too crowded. To them I say, “Wilderness, I’ve been there. It’s that way, 1/8th mile.” What could be easier?
Another solo backpacking adventure… by markskor